Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 3

  ‘Incredible,’ Tol replied. ‘Tall and proud, and noble as a queen. But fragile, too.’ He shook his head, the watery image of her world’s dying breath returning unbidden. ‘She is lonely, I think; haunted by all that she has lost.’

  ‘Is she beautiful?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Tol realised it was the wrong thing to say. Katarina didn’t move, not so much as a muscle. ‘I mean, if you like that sort of thing; wings and all.’

  She sighed. ‘There is no need to soften the truth, Steven. It is better to be wounded by the truth than comforted with by a lie.’

  Katarina turned to leave, but Tol raised himself upright, lunging forward so the sheet dropped to his waist.

  ‘Wait,’ he said as he snatched at Katarina’s wrist, ignoring her startled squeak. ‘You… I always say the wrong thing, always make it worse when I try and impress you.’ He grinned. ‘I always feel a fool. You’re so confident, so graceful, I feel like a lump of iron.’

  ‘Release me.’

  Tol hesitated, struggling to find the right words. Katarina’s hand spasmed within his own, snaking free of his grip and jabbing the underside of Tol’s wrist. He gasped at the sudden sting, and shook his arm, fingers numb. It was too late; Katarina had already reached the door, dancing barefoot across the floor, the lantern flickering wildly in her hand.

  Tol sighed, and lay back down. I’ve done it again, he thought. He closed his eyes but for the longest time sleep eluded him, a white-clad wraith racing beyond reach of his grasping fingers.

  4.

  ‘What’s he even doing here? We nearly got killed because he ignored the King.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Kartane argued, wondering how soon he could arrange one for Sir Rayce Valeron, last in a long line of pompous knights who, despite evidence to the contrary – and in the hand of their own ancestor, no less – seemed to think that they were the Knights Reve.

  Of course, it hadn’t really been an accident, just one of those lucky moments where temptation – an old friend of Kartane – offered up a challenge too good to refuse.

  ‘For Galandor,’ some drunk knight had shouted as they faced the city guards in Kron Vulder. For practice, Kartane thought, narrowly parrying his opponent’s slothful gut strike. He repaid the man by showing him how the move should be done, and didn’t wait for thanks before moving on to the next guard. He was rusty, Kartane knew, years in the iron mines dulling his reactions. Fortunately, the city guards weren’t the best of the best, or even the most average of the middling, and another fell to Kartane’s blade, a squirt of arterial spray fouling one eye in the process. By the time Kartane’s vision returned, the work was done, a dozen or so guards lying in a ragged circle around the Knights Reve. More were coming, though, half a dozen down the main thoroughfare, and a glance to the crossroads’ right showed the same number approaching from that direction, too. I’ve missed this, he thought. Chaos, violence, heartbeat racing, a heady mix.

  ‘After we kill this lot,’ Kartane told his brother in the lull, ‘I’m going to find that Valeron whelp and cut him ear to ear.’

  ‘He’ll be here,’ Korwane promised as a wall of poorly maintained armour charged into the centre of the crossroads.

  Kartane severed the jugular of the first man to approach, the fool leaving it too late to decelerate. The tumbling corpse rolled past Kartane even as more guards came. Kartane fought two, his sword heavier now, each parry a little more desperate, a little slower, than the last. A lucky blow took the man on his right, and Korwane found time to lay open the other’s arm before returning to his own duel. Another man took the place of the dead one, and Kartane found himself facing another average warrior. The moves were coming back, old lessons hard-learned. A feint to break the building rhythm, and Kartane finished the injured one off, snapping his sword back into guard as the inevitable swing came from the other guard. The noise was dying down now, only a few of them left. Kartane scored a gash across his opponent’s chest, striking again for the death-blow as someone shouted, ‘Stop in the name of the King!’

  He was the last, Kartane saw as the guard collapsed to the cobbles, the knights around him already motionless. Dozens of men were jogging towards them, the royal sigil blazoned on their surcoats. In their midst, a broad, barrel-chested man with a face red as tomatoes stormed towards Kartane and the knights.

  ‘Stop,’ someone repeated needlessly as the king drew near. A guard at Kartane’s feet moaned, but he heard the order. Kartane flexed his aching arms, lowering his sword point-down. This done, he leaned on the pommel, a picture of innocence at rest. The guard underneath the sword chose that particular moment to loose one last stuttering groan, and Kartane felt the king’s eyes fix on him.

  ‘What part of “Stop in the name of the king” did you not understand?’

  Kartane looked down, feigning surprise. ‘Oh,’ he said, removing his sword from the dead guard. ‘Apologies. Your Majesty.’

  Unfortunately that had set the tone for the rest of the king’s rant and, rather unfairly, Kartane thought, the rest of the Reve had chosen to blame it all on him, as if somehow it was that last dying guard who had brought on the king’s ferocious anger. Perhaps, he thought, nineteen was an acceptable number of dead guards, but twenty was just that little bit too much; an insult that had to be answered. In the end, though, Kartane decided the king was just pissed there was no one left to execute. Except the knights and three sword-wielding nuns, and they all knew King Harduk wouldn’t risk the church’s wrath.

  Difficult questions had been asked in the battle’s aftermath, and Korwane had evaded them with an eloquence that Kartane hadn’t known his brother possessed. With the arrival of a letter from Duke Tirian detailing the assassination attempt in Kron Vulder and the plot to blame the Knights Reve, King Harduk had eventually released the knights, and Kartane had departed along with the others the following day. The rest of the Reve were sailing, too, but Kartane and the knights of the Seven had been allowed on board the First Father’s ship as it returned home to Meracia. Now, as the cramped confines and rough seas frayed tempers, the knights sat in Sir Isallien’s quarters, supposedly making plans.

  ‘Your brother’s a walking accident,’ Valeron snapped, ‘and as far as I’m concerned he’s not even a knight. He shouldn’t be here.’

  Korwane sat to Kartane’s left, his face darkening at the knight’s insult. Between Korwane and Valeron, Isallien sat with a scowl of his own, the young knight’s patience wearing thin. On Kartane’s right, Sir Balvador shook his head, his thick dark hair swaying with the ship’s rhythmic tilt.

  ‘Had it not been for my brother,’ Korwane said, ‘the Reve would be blamed for the murder of Lady Sarah, and probably kicked out of Norve by now.’

  ‘We all know why he did that.’

  Korwane sighed. ‘Even so, he saved the Reve, and in aiding Tol Kraven he saved the Truth also.’ Korwane leaned over the table. ‘Had it not been for my brother, the war might already be lost.’

  ‘So you say. I say—’

  Balvador thumped the table. ‘Boy,’ he bellowed, ‘enough!’ The big knight leaned back, his chair creaking in protest. ‘You have said your piece, Valeron, and we have heard you. Now you will be silent and listen or the Seven will be looking for a replacement.’

  ‘You can’t!’

  Kartane grinned. ‘It’s happened before,’ he said. ‘Getting murdered seems a popular pastime in your family.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Korwane and Balvador shouted at the same time.

  Kartane raised his hands in surrender, but kept grinning at Valeron across the table, enjoying the purple hue his face had found.

  ‘The boy is a problem,’ Korwane said as the knights fell silent. ‘Word is already spreading that he was chosen by the angel; her knight.’ Korwane shook his head. ‘It’s a mess.’

  ‘Kill him, then,’ Valeron suggested. ‘One quick stroke and the boy’s not an issue, and the angel is forced to deal with us – as it should be.’

  Kartane look
ed to his brother, expecting a protest. Instead, Korwane nodded. ‘It may be necessary.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Kartane thumped the table. ‘The boy saved us all, and killed a demon on top of that. You’re worried because he has the ear of an angel? You should be ashamed of yourselves; he’s one of us.’

  ‘Peace, brother,’ Korwane said, one hand gripping Kartane’s shoulder. ‘It is not that simple. The boy did well, we all know that, but in naming him her knight, the angel has called our authority into question. The Seven lead the Reve, not a boy-knight.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Balvador added, thumping Kartane’s back so hard he nearly spat out his tongue. ‘The Seven guard the Reve, and the actions of that angel could put the order in grave danger.’ Balvador shook his head, the dark forest on his skull quivering. ‘What I don’t understand is why the angel did this: is she ignorant of the consequences? Are we being punished for somehow failing her kind?’

  Korwane leaned forward. ‘You think she means to replace us?’

  Balvador threw up his arms. ‘I just don’t know, ’Wane. Maybe she was grateful and just wanted to reward him; maybe she wants him to lead us.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The Seven lead the Reve,’ Valeron chimed in quickly. ‘It is not for the angels to decide, not when they’ve abandoned us for two centuries. The Seven lead the Reve.’

  Kartane watched in silence, fuming as his fellow knights calmly debated whether to kill the boy who had saved them all as if it was the most trifling detail – barely worth a mention. Valeron was clearly in favour of killing the lad, and Balvador and Korwane were talking each other into it. ‘What about you, Meracian?’

  Isallien stroked his moustache carefully, though not a whisker was out of place. Even in the confines of a ship, he still managed to look immaculate, as though he had just stepped out of a tailor’s. The Meracian knight gave his ’tache another stroke, waiting until he had the attention of all the others. Barely a boy himself, Kartane thought. He can’t be more than a year or two older than Kraven.

  ‘Sir Balvador is right,’ Isallien said at last, steepling his fingers and perching his sharp chin on top. ‘We do not know the angel’s intentions.’

  Balvador grunted. ‘So we assume the worst?’

  ‘No. We cannot fathom the mind of such a creature, and in postulating that she threatens our primacy we are assuming she thinks as we do.’

  ‘You counsel caution?’ Kartane’s brother seemed relieved, and deep down Kartane knew his brother would order Tol Kraven’s death if he felt it was best for the Reve, but he would take no joy in doing so.

  ‘Kill him cautiously, then,’ Valeron snapped. ‘I’ll do it, if you don’t have the stomach for it.’

  The Meracian’s head pivoted on steepled fingers, and Kartane saw the anger in the young man’s eyes. ‘I know you seek to protect the Reve,’ Isallien said, ‘but you must understand that acting in haste could very well bring about what you seek to avoid: kill the angel’s friend without cause and we risk her wrath.’

  Without cause. Kartane realised that was the point here, not that they couldn’t kill Tol Kraven, but that they might need to justify it later. Or arrange an accident.

  ‘We could make it seem like an accident,’ Valeron suggested.

  ‘But if it goes wrong,’ Korwane said, ‘we’re back to dealing with an angry angel again.’

  ‘You are angry,’ Isallien said quietly, ‘and it has clouded your judgement.’ His chin bounced off his fingers and Isallien leaned back in his chair, hands raised. ‘I am angry, too,’ he said when the protests died down. ‘We were told that we fight for the angels, and that they would return when we needed them. We guard the truth and suffer under its weight, but now an angel has come, and she has ignored us, spurned us like last night’s lover. We have lived in hope that they will return, and now one has come all we can think of is punishing the knight she favours.’ Isallien’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘We are the Seven. We are supposed to be better than this.’

  Well, well, Kartane thought. Aren’t you a tricky bastard? In seconds the Meracian had turned the whole conversation round, the mood shifting so that now they all felt humbled. Except me. People had tried humbling Kartane over the years. None of them were alive.

  Korwane was the first to speak. ‘Isallien is right. We are seeing daggers at our backs where there may be none. Assassins in our homeland, Icepeak and St Helena’s are fallen – and as if that wasn’t enough, a demon. It is understandable, but as Isallien says, we should be better than this.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Balvador asked.

  ‘There is too much we do not know,’ Isallien said. ‘We can only guess at the angel’s reasons, we do not know what – if anything – she has in mind for Kraven, and we have a war to prosecute.’ Isallien shrugged. ‘We do not know for certain where the boy is, nor where he will go.’ He glanced at Kartane. ‘What do you think, Kartane?’

  ‘On his own, the boy would head east, join up with us at the battlefront.’ Kartane sighed. ‘The angel can’t keep him away from the war, not after her declaration. We’ll see him again.’

  ‘Then we wait,’ Korwane said. ‘And we watch.’

  5.

  ‘There it is.’

  Tol stared over the prow at the bay ahead, the water sparkling in spring’s afternoon glare. A huge city of multicoloured towers and mansions sprawled across the horizon, a semicircular waterfront hemming in the riot of colour that threatened to burst forth and dye the ocean. Two rivers split the curve of the bay neatly into three equal sections, and as Tol squinted across the water he noticed the city’s skyline gradually rose from the outer edges as it approached the central section. A city within a city, he thought. That’s where the court will be: on an island away from the commoners. Tol could only see the edges of the central district, the city’s sole white building obliterating the view, a polished white palace on a promontory, jutting out towards the bay’s centre. The palace was larger than even Duke Tirian’s fortress, but whereas Karnvost’s castle was built solely for defence, this one was all soft curves, fluttering pennants, and slender towers that looked like they might topple in a breeze. Not designed for defence. At least, not by anyone who knew the practicalities of defending a position.

  ‘High Mera,’ Katarina continued, ‘home to some of the world’s most devious, cunning schemers.’ Tol heard a slight huff of exhalation and saw a restrained a smile, sure his inattention was the cause. She’s jealous of a city holding my gaze, he thought, turning an escaping chuckle into a cough.

  ‘Of course,’ Katarina said, ‘Father makes them all look like primitive knights from the northern lands.’

  Tol turned away from the vista. ‘Perhaps not all northern knights are as primitive as they appear.’

  Katarina snorted. ‘You fell off a mountain.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tol said, ‘but I learned a valuable lesson.’

  ‘Don’t fall off mountains.’

  ‘Yes.’ And don’t trust beautiful Sudalrese spies or you’ll end up bound and gagged in a ship’s hold.

  ‘Most people do not feel the urge to try in the first place.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tol said, turning back to the city, ‘it was an accident.’

  Katarina didn’t say any more on the subject, instead following his gaze across the sea. ‘The royal palace is moderately impressive,’ she admitted, ‘though I prefer the black stone of my home. Still,’ Tol heard a rustle of cloth as she shrugged, ‘a whole island with nothing else on it does make a rather bold statement.’

  ‘An island?’ Tol peered over the water. The narrow marble bridge he had seen earlier appeared to cross the bay, but as he looked closer, Tol saw that it was two separate bridges joining the palace to the outer districts. The third, richer central district, was presumably linked likewise by a bridge behind the palace. He nodded; it was most certainly impressive, and almost made up for the many defensive vulnerabilities he had noticed. ‘You could still take it with a couple of hun
dred men.’

  The grating chuckle of Katarina’s shadow drowned out whatever she said, and Tol heard another rustle as she scowled over her shoulder at the Sworn man. ‘Don’t encourage him,’ she said to Stetch.

  Tol turned back to face the pair as the ship changed course, veering towards the outer edge of the city where dozens of ships lay at anchor.

  ‘I do hope,’ Katarina said, ‘that you are not going to try and storm the palace. That would be foolish, even by your base standards.’

  ‘I was just saying that it would be a difficult place to defend if ever there was a siege.’

  She sighed heavily. ‘You are thinking in terms of traditional warfare, Steven. High Mera has been at war with itself for centuries, but it is a different kind of war: one fought with words and duels rather than armies.’ She shook her head, dark hair fluttering in the salty breeze. ‘The last time an army reached the city, the citizens welcomed them with open arms and served them fine wine and hearty meals. The army reached the bridge, and its general even made it halfway across before he died.’

  She gripped Tol by the arm. ‘They poisoned the army: an entire city united in deceit. You must not underestimate these people.’

  ‘I’m not trying to take the city,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to get their army moving.’

  ‘I am not sure they will see the distinction.’

  Tol shrugged. ‘And what will you be doing?’ Somehow, in the several days they had spent aboard the Moontide Katarina had neatly avoided explaining her own purpose in Meracia.

  She glanced around the deck, but none of the crew were near enough to hear. ‘Some of my father’s informants have fallen silent,’ Katarina said, her voice a whisper above the wind. ‘Father is concerned that something has happened to them.’

  Tol nodded. ‘So this is where we part ways?’